


creatio ex nihilo

by Unuora



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: M/M, also: fuck the fourth wall we didnt need it anyway, im deluding myself into thinking otherwise, this is just a fix-it fic, valerie and the judge make a cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:57:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7797361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unuora/pseuds/Unuora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There exists an entity that is more powerful than the Batter, more powerful than the script, more powerful than anything else. It alone is capable of reshaping the universe from the way it was left and...<br/>Well, you'll figure it out soon enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	creatio ex nihilo

**Author's Note:**

> i should not have written this. i have so many things to do but no, i finally finished playing Off in 2016, like a loser, and im in love. this is disgusting. take this. bye.

It’s one of many, but one of the very first times when the Batter walks into Zacharie’s shop, a handful of credits and the gruff command of, “Jokers, and that one,” paired with a firm gesture to something in his shop. Without another word he puts the money on the counter, and Zacharie chuckles as he pulls out the right number of cards and the bat to pass to the Batter.

“Thank you, amigo,” Zacharie says, surreptitiously tucking the credits away somewhere behind the counter. “The best of luck on your holy quest.”

A silent nod from the Batter makes Zacharie lean forward on his elbows, watching the Batter equip the merchandise he had just bought. “And if you have any questions, Player, I’ll always be wherever you need me,” he chuckles, “And I will be more than willing to take any unnecessary credits off your hands.” 

“What kind of questions?” The Batter picks up the jokers he bought and tucks them into one pocket.

“Any kind,” Zacharie says, his voice still colored with a grin, “About the game, about the script and its inevitable doom, or even questions about little old me.” If a mask could smirk it was most definitely doing it now.

The Batter had questions and he wanted answers, so he wasted no time in pondering. “Why do you wear that mask?” The Batter remained emotionless even as Zacharie leaned forward, predatory and sly, laughter always present. 

“Wasting no time to get to the good stuff, I see,” Zacharie says, bringing his hand to the underside of the mask and for a brief moment the Batter thought he might take if off. “Every inquiring Player has had the same question, what makes you think you’re so special?” Rhetorical question or not, Zacharie leered at the Batter, but the Batter did nothing but blink. The mask had slipped up ever so slightly and quite intentionally a glimpse of skin showed through, just the edge of his chin and no more.

Sighing, Zacharie leaned back and the mask settled back to where it was supposed to be. He lifts his hands unassumingly, “My dear friend,” he says, slumping in his chair lazily, “I just want to be mysterious.”

“But you’re human,” the Batter asks next, feeling nothing in particular about Zacharie's facetious and teasing behavior. 

“Yes,” Zacharie says, without a pause. The Batter feels Zacharie’s piercing stare even through the mask, but the Batter just nods and turns to walk away.

Zacharie’s laugh follows him to the doorway, “My, I had imagined that our lovely Player had more questions without answers. Nothing else to say?”

“The Player does not control my thoughts or my words,” the Batter says, “They only guide my feet on a righteous path. I do not need to know the future or its mechanics; it will be as fate transcribes it.”

“Right,” Zacharie says, grabbing a Joker from the table before him and playing with it mindlessly, “But the script, well, that determines everything that you think and say, dear Batter. It is woefully true that as you are right now you are merely an idea.” He bends the card slightly before flicking it across the room. It flutters to the Batter’s feet. 

“A joker. You are a wild man, a trump card to this wasteland eager to come out on top, and you will as we both know. But be that as it may,” Zacharie purrs, “You are still only a fool. A playing card. A pawn to a bigger game.”

The Batter says nothing, blank as ever but Zacharie does not mind that. He just grins, gleeful, behind his mask. “Have you no questions about that?” 

The Batter shakes his head. “I have a mission to complete,” he says, and then he’s out the door and gone before Zacharie can say anything else. He just sits at his desk and grins.

 

“Greed?” Zacharie’s voice is full of barely restrained glee, laughter slipping from his lips. “I am greedy, you say, as I am the only merchant of this land. Is that right?”

“Yes,” the Batter says, “This land is full of sin, and you are heavy with greed. Just as Dedan is blackened with rage, Japhet colored with pride, Enoch filled with gluttony—“

Zacharie laughs outright at that, something much more than his regular chuckle. “You have us all sorted out,” he sighs, “We are impure because we have all committed the basest of sins.”

“Yes,” the Batter’s voice is sharp and his conviction sharper, even as Zacharie is lazy and unconcerned in the wake of it.

“Batter,” Zacharie says, resting his head on one hand, “Did you know credits are worthless? My dear friend, they are a game mechanic, just idle numbers. The only one who gives value to them is the Player themselves, but without them…” Zacharie trails off, just watching the Batter for any reaction to this information, a grin growing beneath his mask the whole time. “Have you calculated that in your methodical analysis?”

“The very act itself is greedy,” the Batter says, dodging any and all of Zacharie’s words, “To require payment, especially if it is worthless, is unbecoming.”

“You are misunderstanding that we simply just are,” Zacharie says with a hand wave full of dismissiveness, “But if we are following your rulebook, I may be greedy but then you, my dear friend, you are the embodiment of true evil.”

It resides in the sinews and muscles of the body, and it is felt when there is one hand around an Elsen’s neck and with the swing of a heavy bat.

It resides in the pit of the gut and the hunger of the brain, and it is felt heaven’s halos and an unbeatable weapon makes one invincible.

It resides in the clench of the fingers and the sharpness of the eyes, and it is felt when all that’s left is to take and take and take and take.

It resides in the aloofness of the consciousness, and it is felt when walking without a second thought and when eyes are blind to doubt.

It resides in the conviction and brashness of the self, and it is felt when one’s own ears and eyes and senses are willfully shut, even in defeat.

It resides in the clench of teeth and in the pit of the gut, and it is felt when satisfaction is lost, and when one feels nothing but empty.

It resides in the weakness of the self and it is felt when one cannot accept one’s own failure, to the point of destruction.

The Batter wakes up when reunited with the Player, but his hands feel unclean. 

The script continues on, as it’s supposed to, even as everything fades into nonexistence. But the people of this land have long since forgotten what is supposed to happen anyway.

 

It all slips away easily into the heavy black smoke and the sharp tang of metal and the viscous ocean that smells of chemicals and fire. There is a weapon, a beautiful queen who is wretched in the eyes of the man (for he has driven himself mad and beauty is beyond him) and there are ten steps until the end of the world.

With the Judge dead, the Batter’s bat is heavy with blood and indescribable regret. There are only two remaining in this place. There is only one who the footsteps that the Batter hears can belong to. 

Four steps to the end of the world and there is a hand on the Batter’s shoulder.

A voice heavy with sadness, “This isn’t what you wanted,” it says, a whisper in the silence, “Let’s try this again.”

“This is exactly what I wanted,” the monster screams somewhere quiet, somewhere contained, “The world is gone, it deserved to be destroyed. This is the only way to be safe.”  
But the child, the young boy who had grown old, it was his resentment that had grown into the monsters with claws and teeth. It’s his voice instead that says, “I’m scared.”

“I know.”

The world drains out to white.

 

The world is full of sadness, no, it is composed from it. The game will always end in white ringing silence. The script always leads to tragedy.

The Batter was once naught but a fool, the Player the unwilling accomplice of a calamity. But the Player, well, the Player is not helpless. 

The world is destroyed.

A new one is built out of necessity. 

 

“I’m the Batter,” he says. 

“No you’re not,” Zacharie says, uncharacteristically solemn. “Try again.”

He swallows, then a pause. “I’m Hugo.”

There’s a tinge of a smile that he can’t see on Zacharie’s face, but he feels it instead. “No,” he shakes his head slightly, “Try again.”

“I’m…” Some indescribable emotion swells in his throat, replacing some of the trembling sorrow and rage. His hands change from claws to bloodstained hands, to something in between. “I’m me.” The lines of his body settle into one shape. His hands are clean, close cut fingernails and a scar on his left hand.

There’s a smile now. “Yes,” Zacharie says, “You are,” and he can hear it. It sounds nice.

 

Once, long ago, there had been barren land. In the weight of the end of the world a boy had built a kingdom out of cardboard and Popsicle sticks. There was a wise little birdy at his windowsill, there was a man in a long trench coat that walked down the sidewalk every morning, and of course, there was his kind teddy bear to keep him company.

The boy found a toad, a little complacent thing that he crafted into the lovely queen and the stern king to rein over the paradise kingdom.

The king toad grew ill with sin when the boy grew old and disappeared. 

The way humans change, or moreover, the capacity for humans to grow sick with bitterness and hate, was not calculated in utopia.

 

“Zacharie,” he had said, “tell me your story.”

Zacharie just looks at him placidly. He is always conniving, always sly and most definitely always mysterious. Some of the predator had bled out of him though, fewer teeth, less claws. Peaceful was a word that could come to mind, if one thought about it. 

“Tell me how you killed  
(me, a long dead voice says, that evil something)  
(my father, another voice says, a little boy starving in a burning house)  
the Toad King,” he settles upon. Zacharie watches him closely, seemingly aware of the voices in his head.

“Once upon a time,” Zacharie says, “There was a boy. He lived in a quaint house and he had a family.”

Two hands, laced together. I love you, one says, I love you too, says the other. And that was all there was to it.

“But the man was afraid. He wore a suit and tie and he was very scared. He was not a good man when he was scared and he gave the boy pills for the fear and for the black smoke that swam through the windows. The man tried to hide his fear but he wasn’t very good at it; whenever the boy asked any questions he yelled and the boy didn’t like that. “

An open window shakes in its frame from an impact. The sky is grey and petals of black fall from the sky like rain. A young boy hides in the chill of the cellar for a very long time.

“There was a woman with long silver hair and gentle hands. She didn’t know how to deal with the rising black smoke or the man’s fear, and would hide herself away. On his birthday she said she would be back with a wonderful cake, and she climbed through the black smoke all the way to the top of her tower and never came down again.”

A windowpane, one side of the glass cracked beyond repair and an empty street on the other side. It’s very quiet.

“The man was still full of fear, and one day he grew sick of being afraid and threw away his tie. When the kingdom was built, he took his rightful place as the King. He watched the queen mourn high in the sky where no one could touch her, and became angry. He grew wretched and corrupt in his loneliness.  
He was never meant to be king, and he grew and swelled in his hatred and anger to become the monster in the storybooks.  
He died in the name of the kingdom but the damage had already been done.”

Zacharie sounds tired. It takes just a few moments of sadness amid endless laughs to break the façade of happiness. 

“And then in his death he made me,” the man, as that is all he is, just a man, says simply. He wishes he could see Zacharie’s face more than ever when his attention turns to him. But Zacharie just chuckles out a laugh, just a little weak.

“No,” he says, soft and gentle, “Humanity made the Batter. You’re allowed to be different. You are different.”

He looks at his hands, still foreign, and so full with the capacity to hurt, with the capacity to grow.

“Zacharie,” he says, unnecessarily, as Zacharie’s full attention still remains on him, “What are we supposed to do now?”

 

The Judge purrs happily next to Valerie when he walks into Zone 0. 

“Hello, mysterious vagabond,” Pablo says, ears perked up and his ever present grin of teeth in full show, “Your purpose alludes me. What do you need here?”

“Nothing,” he says, seeing the pair of cats in a new light. Valerie tilts his head to look at the man serenely, but says nothing. “It’s very pretty here.”

When he sits down next to the cats, they stay cautious for a moment before slowly relaxing. 

“I am the Judge,” Pablo says slowly, even through Valerie’s light chuckle. “I am the guardian of this land and… Valerie, what?”

“Nothing,” Valerie says softly, voice still full of laughter, “Why do you insist on the nickname the Judge though? Isn’t that a little bit pretentious, Pablo?”

“Valerie, c’mon now…”

 

A boy grows into a man, in time. 

A boy with fear engraved into his soul, well, he is just as dangerous as the one who had done the engraving. 

The pendulum swings, and the little boy Hugo dies of hate. In his place grows the legacy his parents sown, blackened, curved claws and a penchant for destruction.

 

“Vader,” the man says when he meets her high up on her tower. She turns her cold eyes onto him, but in the sunrise they’re surprisingly warm. 

“Welcome home,” she says with a brief smile. There’s a glimpse of Japhet as he soars across the skies back to his library. “Are you ready?,” is what Vader says next, and he takes her offered hand without second thought. 

It is the world that this land was meant to be.

 

“Who are you, then,” he asks once, introspectively, contemplatively, “In this… whole history. What role did you play? The murderer? The onlooker?”

Zacharie just smiles and he’s getting pretty good at guessing when he is even behind the mask, “You still don’t understand, dear friend,” he says slowly, somewhat sadly, almost, “I’m just a merchant.”

 

“We do whatever we need to do,” Zacharie says, “We persist, we continue on, and the Player will guide our steps.”

He senses a tinge of mockery in that, but he doesn’t mind because Zacharie is climbing over to sit next to him. And if Zacharie leans a little bit too heavily on him then no one needs to know.

Their fingers are entangled and it feels like revolution. It tastes like relief. It sounds like the beginnings of happiness and what it looks like… well, behind that mask is nothing that the Player needs to know about.

 

Written word’s lifespan is eternal so, for posterity:

Love.

**Author's Note:**

> when i asked my best friend what to name the inappropriately timed Off fanfiction she said to name it "fanfuck off" which i thought was special enough to include here  
> she is truly a treasure
> 
> also this is mostly unedited. don't feel bad if you want to point out where i forgot how grammar works. thnx.


End file.
